


The Watch

by Anonymous



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Anon April, Dark, F/M, First Person, Han is kind of a dick in this, High School, Implied Sexual Abuse, Implied abuse, Just creepiness, Leia isn't great either, No Smut, Stalking, Teenage Ben, Teenage Rey, better safe than sorry, inspired a bit by the song Yvette by Jason Isbell, put the non-con warning due to the implied abuse, sociopath ben, sorry about that
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-05
Updated: 2019-04-05
Packaged: 2020-01-05 02:25:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18356693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Ben Solo keeping a close and obsessive eye on his classmate Rey.





	The Watch

**Author's Note:**

> Happy anon April! Have some creepy teenage sociopath stalker Ben.
> 
> Chapter count may change, not sure if this will be two or three chapters.

From my vantage point my eyes can just barely make her out in the upstairs bedroom.

It’s further back than I want to be, but to get closer risks being seen. Here, in the brush a little ways up the hill, I can get a view straight into each window. Little bubbles into life in the house on the end of the cul de sac.

With my scope I can see in each room clearly.

She’s home, in her room, working on homework at her desk. I can see her brush her hair back from her face, can tell she’s biting her lip in concentration. Not sure what class she’s working on though, or see the concentration and apprehension I know is there in those hazel eyes. Can’t see that with just my rifle scope.

I scan to the next room over. Her mother is home, talking on her cellphone while putting laundry away into drawers.

She seems nice, maybe a little aloof, but seems to be doting on her daughter. At first I thought it might just be an act— something to maintain looks in public. But my observations have shown her to be that way at home, where there’s no one else around to care.

Bizarre. It’s not like she doesn’t know.

The rest of the house is empty, her father’s car is missing from the driveway. But he’ll be home eventually.

I sigh, lowering the rifle as my breath freezes and rises around my face. The late fall chill is trying to settle into my bones. I button my hunting jacket up to the collar, letting my rifle rest across my lap.

Watching the house, I wait.

 

* * *

 

My first kill was with a pellet gun.

I was seven, shooting at a paper target nailed to a tree, when my dad, beer in hand, had challenged me to try to hit one of the squirrels scurrying about and chasing each other from tree to tree. At first I had hesitated—my mother had lectured me for what seemed like hours when I’d gotten the pellet gun about never shooting at an animal or person—but my father, as charming as he always was when he was already one sheet to the wind and fast approaching two, had taunted and goaded me until I gave in.

The rodent that became my victim was running up a tree trunk when my pellet hit it. It curled up as it fell, bouncing when it hit the ground. I remember feeling a sense of stunned awe as I followed my father over to where it writhed, blood splashed on it’s white belly.

Watching it twitch sent a thrill down my spine. One that had scared me, because I had some understanding that I should feel bad for the suffering I had caused. That I shouldn’t like it.

But I did.

“BENJAMIN SOLO!”

My mother’s voice had brought a whole different kind of terror. I had just done something I was told I was never supposed to do, and my fear of angering her, coupled with the fear of having liked the illicit thing, caused me to burst into tears.

My father had huffed in aggravation, the way he always did when he felt like I was being too sensitive and emotional, “For Christ’s sake, Ben, it’s just a Goddamned tree rat. Pull yourself together.”

They argued, snarling into each other’s faces, while I cried. “So what, he killed a bushy-tailed rat,” I remember my father snapping, aggravated. “Ain’t like I’m not going to be taking the kid hunting with me in a few years, Leia, what’s the big deal?”

That had been the point when my mother had grabbed my arm, storming away and dragging me behind her. Once inside, she had turned and hugged me, telling me that it was okay, that she knew I was sorry.

It took my seven year old brain a minute to understand that they thought I was crying for the squirrel.

That was my first lesson in how feigning a reaction deemed appropriate could keep you from getting in trouble.

 

* * *

 

I’m not like everyone else.

I understood that fairly early on. So did the other kids. When we were really little, they avoided me. When we were a little older, they teased and bullied me because of it. At thirteen I snapped after some little prick smashed me into a wall and knocked my binder out of my hands, scattering my homework all over the hallway.

It took four teachers to drag me off of him. I’d pummeled his face beyond recognition.

My mom was able to use her political clout to keep me from getting charged with assault. I got a one month suspension and a boring weekly visit with my uncle Luke, who was conveniently enough a psychiatrist.

I feigned remorse and told him the things he wanted to hear.

The kids at school mostly leave me alone now, aside from the occasional taunt and attempt to bait me into throwing a punch and getting myself in trouble.

I don’t regret it at all.

 

* * *

 

School bores and irritates me.

My classmates are feeble minded pissants. My teachers are self-important and arrogant blowhards who get off talking down and dismissing their students. The classes are dull and slow, I could be sleepwalking through my days and still bring home the straight A’s that my mother demands.

Sometimes it feels like I _am_ sleepwalking. Floating above myself as I meander through this pointlessness.

I’ve dreamed about fire and blood and screams, the school in flames as I watch through my rifle scope, picking them off one my one. I think about it sometimes and wonder if I could get away with it.

Probably not. Not something that big. They’d find me and lock me up. My mother would be disappointed in me.

Not worth it if I can’t get away with it.

 

* * *

 

I’ve never really noticed any of the girls before. They blend together to the point they don’t matter, just like the boys. They might have different names but they’re just another copy of the generic loud, obnoxious slut that populate the hallways and classes, sneaking off with their generic dumb neanderthal male counterpart of the week.

Most of my sexual fantasies have involved forcing myself on one of them. Usually whichever one was annoying me the most that week. I never really felt anything like attraction, just a desire to see them afraid, to see them hurt, unable to escape as I have my way with them.

Then she showed up. Hazel eyes and brown hair tied up into three buns. Pretty, but not extraordinary. I don’t know what it was that caught my attention at first, maybe the long sleeves and turtleneck she wore despite the warm weather of late August.

The teacher had her get up and introduce herself. Her nose crinkled in annoyance as she went to the front of the class and said her name.

Rey.

Simple. Pretty. Like her.

The teacher prodded her with a few other questions that she answered with one or two words and an adorable scowl at his continued annoyance of her. To her clear relief, he gave up after one or two more attempts to get her to “open up” to the class about herself. She stalked down to take a seat in a seat two desks over from me. I studied her, strangely fascinated by the soft freckles over her nose, eyes tracing downward over her small breasts.

She turned her head sharply, sensing my attention, and glared at me.

I smiled. I never smile. She narrowed her eyes suspiciously in response, lifting her hand up to push some stray hairs back behind her ears. It made her sleeve slip up slightly.

An ugly bruise circled her wrist. My eyes locked onto it, my smile fading to a frown.

Rey jerked her sleeve back down to cover it, scowling as she turned away.

 

* * *

 

My breath curled around me as I watched the silver Lexus pull into the driveway.

Her father was home.

I lifted my rifle again, watching through the scope as the man heaved his fat body up out of the car and headed into the house.

They’d have dinner soon. Sitting down like the happy little family they looked like they should be.

I set the rifle down in my lap again, and watch.


End file.
